


Circumspect

by rosekay



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locke and Jean are deflowered.  They'll let you interpret that sentence as you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circumspect

**Author's Note:**

> My original assignment. I liked it so much I couldn't resist come Yuletide Madness. Written for Sage.

*

When Locke came awake, he first became aware of the Syresti sand trap his throat had become, and then, slowly, the other little aches and pains littering his body. Once he was fully out of the drunken lurch of sleep, he realized that his hand was moving. Not of his own accord, it was moving because it was lying on top of someone else's uncomfortably unclothed flesh. Someone who was breathing, rather heartily actually. Someone who had also woken up and was looking him straight in the eye.

"Twelve Gods," said Jean miserably. He was missing his optics, and his hair looked like it was about to crawl off his head and eat Locke whole.

Locke stared at his hand in the manner of an executioner eyeing a bowing criminal. Would it be more mortifying, he wondered, if he tried to snatch it back? Maybe if he just closed his eyes and didn't move a muscle, the hallucination would gradually reveal itself.

"I'm, I'm pretty sure, well - "

"Locke Lamora, at a loss for _words_?" Jean feigned shock. "I never thought I'd see the day." Locke eyed the bedsheets for probable garotting material.

"I was _saying_ that I'm almost certain there was a _woman_ between umm, between," he looked down at his hand, which was still resting on Jean's still breathing stomach, Crooked Warden help him, "between us," he finished lamely.

"I'm sure that there's a reasonable - "

"Locke," said Jean, who had moved his breathing, naked flesh helpfully from beneath Locke's frozen hand, and equally helpfully started pulling rumpled clothing over his body; Locke thought he should take pointers on that one. "Let us never speak of this again."

"Done," he agreed fervently.

*

_Reminiscence_

"There will come a time," said Chains severely. "When your, ah, well, how the fuck should I put this, your _charms_ might be required for you to pull off a job."

Locke was possibly the skinniest fifteen year old Camorr had ever spat out of her loins, average in just about every way except his complete inability not to resemble a chicken. Jean was busy failing quite spectacularly at trying to tease some beard out of his ample chin. They both stared at Chains in a way that was approaching myopic.

"Usually," Galdo began.

"That stuff's for us handsome devils," Calo twirled a little for affect as he said this.

"But I guess sometimes we'd get desperate," Galdo pulled a face.

"Or Sabetha will have gone missing again," Calo mused. All of Locke's blood started flooding south at this pronouncement. He eyed Calo's wine glass with deadly intent. 

"So we're left with you two monsters," they finished together.

Locke exchanged a meaningful look with Jean. They still hated that.

"Now," Chains began again. "When a man and a woman, or I suppose a man and a - " 

"Sweet Perelandro," moaned Locke in horror, but it was already too late.

*

_A later reminiscence_

Chains said, "She's dangerous, and she'll have you dancing to her tune like a drunk spider. If you fuck this up, Lamora, you will _really_ fuck this up."

"Whatever," said Locke, who was distracted.

*

_An even later reminiscence_

Francesca Paula could have been Camorr come to life in the form of a woman. Her honeyed complexion glowed under the punishing sun, and the dark, sleek wings of her hair brushed her temples with an arrogant sort of elegance. She was clothed in fabrics extravagant enough to finance several lesser yearly salaries, and the fabrics themselves were spare enough that they could have passed for smallclothes. From her precisely painted lips, full and alchemically brilliant in their hue, to her very generous curves that seemed like they were simply yearning to escape their expensive cage, she poured out sex like a heady perfume.

Locke Lamora, age sixteen, not yet fully in the thrall of a certain, fickle friend, was absolutely helpless.

Jean Tannen was only slightly better off.

Francesca was not the goal. That would be her husband, a merchant of obscene wealth, and a man of dubious morals, as well as sexual prowess, if Francesca's predatory gaze was anything to go by. But this was a fact that was difficult to remember in the face of her rather stunning visual presentation, and the stupefying effect of expensive Jereshti scents that seemed to wind themselves about her magnificent hair, her long throat, the terrifying shadow between her breasts where her dress kissed the very edge of propriety. If h

"Have a drink, my dears, _please_ ," and her throaty purr was the death of them. She looked like a figure sprung from the worst Korin romances.

Jean was a special connoisseur of said romances.

Locke was a special connoisseur of their implied breasts.

"I think we will, Madam," he said, speaking for the both of them.

*

"She played us like, like," Locke struggled, "I don't even know what she played us like." He paced around a little bit more. "Three _months_ time, and what do we have to show for it? A couple solari? A house in the country in our name?"

"Well," said Jean, chewing slowly. "We're not, ah, we're not - "

Locke flushed an unattractive brick red all the up to his close cropped hair. " _Jean_ ," he said dangerously.

"Well, Chains did warn you."

"He did?"

"I did," Chains told them, clapping them on the shoulders. "Now we learned a few things, didn't we? Outside of the obvious, ah, loss of - "

He looked down at their crotches meaningfully. Locke and Jean both manfully killed the urge to cross their legs.

*

_A last, fond reminiscence_

The room starts tilting at odd angles after the first too-sweet sip, and Locke thinks, well, fuck. Jean has a similar expression right next to him. Francesca practically licks her lips.

"Darling, boys," she says, holding out her arms, and Locke sort of stumbles forward.

At some point, there's air moving between his legs even though he's pretty sure he only just had his trousers on, and clever fingers winding between his thighs, doing far more skilled and crazy things than even Locke had ever managed on his own.

"Umph," he mumbled into her perfumed shoulder, tongue lolling against slick, hot flesh. Scrambling behind her, he encountered a far more hairy stretch of skin than he expected, and along with it, Jean's distinctive deep moan.

"Shit," said Locke vaguely.

"Shh," Francesca kissed his cheek, running a hand through his hair, and a leg around his hip. All the points of touch felt like a string of fires up and down his body, Jean's deep breaths a counterpoint to his own panicked inhalations.

Later, fucking into Francesca, whose hands clawed themselves into fists along his shoulderblades, his mouth parched, and cock ready to burst from the way she snapped her hips forward, his scrabbling hand found another, and his flung forward face was only inches from Jean's equally sweaty one. It's the drugs, though Locke, dazed and ready to come. Then, wow, I am literally _fucked._

And then, _well, at least Jean's here._

*

the end 


End file.
